


Fireplace

by elldotsee



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domesticity, M/M, Missing Scene, The Blind Banker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: After escaping from Shan with their lives (and Sarah's) intact, John and Sherlock return home to a messy flat. They spend a quiet and introspective evening in.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 26
Kudos: 61
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Fireplace

**Author's Note:**

> Woohoo day 2! Even with the stomach flu, I managed to finish this one up in time. :) Enjoy, me lovelies. 
> 
> xxx,   
> elsie

Their footsteps on the stairs were loud, echoing into the dark house. Mrs Hudson would be asleep by now, cradled in the numb comfort of her evening soothers. On the landing, John shrugged out of his jacket, shivering in the draughty air as he hung it up and followed Sherlock inside. The flat was cold, the stale air of a space unoccupied for several hours. He groaned inwardly at the sight of books still stacked haphazardly on every available surface. What a mess. Across both windows was scrawled yellow paint, the same cipher. That hadn't been there earlier... _oh._

Sherlock had gone still, staring at the windows.

“Did they…”

“You’re shivering, John. Go shower and get warm, I’ll straighten this up.” Sherlock said briskly, moving toward the table and shifting piles of books into a box. He kept his coat on and John knew it was as much for warmth as comfort. 

He hesitated, feeling as though he should say something. They hadn’t spoken in the cab on the way home, each staring out their own window, lost in thought. This life that they led, that John had chosen without hesitation and had continued to chase night after night, without any regret, it was a life of danger. John knew that, and he knew Sherlock knew it too. Who knew how many years Sherlock had been doing this alone, how many close calls he’d survived by himself, without the burden of a second (or third, in tonight’s case) person to worry about, drag around, and save. Perhaps Sherlock was having second thoughts about this whole thing. He’d certainly seemed put out the whole evening by having John and Sarah there. If it weren’t for them, he wouldn’t have ever even been in that tunnel, being shot at by Shan and her henchmen. Shan wouldn’t have got away. In fact, Sherlock probably would have solved the whole thing at the circus, if John hadn’t been in the way, too busy trying to get off with Sarah to even notice anything amiss until it was nearly too late...

“Something the matter, John?” Sherlock didn’t turn, his voice pitched low in the dimly lit sitting room. John knew he’d been standing there too long, his tangled thoughts no doubt writ all over his features. Outside a siren blared past. 

“Nope. I’m fine. I’ll just…” Inelegantly, he turned and marched to the bathroom, his shower perfunctory, though the hot water and steam felt wonderful on his battered body. He did a quick inventory to make sure he hadn’t sustained any injuries, other than the blow to his head. It ached, but not in an overly concerning way. He gave it a good cleaning and inspection in the bathroom mirror, decided that it didn't need any further care. 

A grunt from the sitting room gave John pause on his way out of the bathroom to his own room for fresh clothes. John peeked in to see that Sherlock had cleared all of the books and was dragging the boxes from the sitting room, piling them up on the landing. He’d ditched his coat and had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was sweaty and pale, his shoulders tight as he paused to catch his breath, hands splayed on his narrow hips. John swallowed. 

“Shower’s free. Go on, I’ll get those soon as I’m dressed.” He made his voice purposely light, not waiting for an answer before he made his way up the stairs to toss on some clothes. He hurried back downstairs and was pleased to see that Sherlock had taken his advice. The pipes clanged as the water turned on and John set to work. From the kitchen, he fetched a bucket of water and a flannel. The table was still laid with the remnants of an interrupted date night, two trays and two glasses of wine awaiting a takeaway that was never received. He cleaned all of that up quickly, clearing the rest of the junk from the table as best as possible, before carrying his bucket into the sitting room and starting on the paint. While he worked, he tried to imagine the scene as it must have happened. He was knocked out by the person at the door that he’d  _ thought _ was the takeaway delivery driver, but was actually one of Shan’s muscles. They must have shoved him into an awaiting car, then come back in for Sarah. Did they knock her out as well? Where was Mrs Hudson during all of this? Surely she would’ve heard the commotion and come out to investigate? Or maybe she’d lived with Sherlock Holmes long enough to know when it’s best just to stay quiet. Perhaps he should’ve checked to make sure she was okay too. 

Behind him, a door opened and closed. John wiped at the window with some kitchen paper and dipped his flannel back in the water. 

Sherlock must have come back at some point and noticed the message they’d left on the window. But why did he even come back? And where had he gone before that? John couldn’t remember. He squinted, scrubbing harder at the yellow tinted water streaming down the glass. 

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Sherlock murmured, near his right shoulder. 

“No, I’m fine… oh. Haha.” John scowled. 

“You practically have smoke coming out of your ears trying to work it all out. Shall I tell you, or will that spoil all the fun?” Sherlock stepped in closer and John went still, trying not to elbow him in the face as he bent down to wet his own flannel. 

Red light flashed in kaleidoscopic patterns on the wet glass as an ambulance sailed down Baker Street. John scrubbed at the last of the yellow paint as Sherlock set to work on the opposite side. It was quiet in the flat, a peaceful, content kind of quiet. When Sherlock spoke, it was again in that same hushed voice that he’d used all evening, as though he was being extra careful with his words, or maybe just reverentially introspective. 

“I worked out the cipher before I even made it into a cab. I bumped into a couple on the street and knocked a book out of their hands. It was the London A-Z. I remembered suddenly seeing that book in both Lukis’ and Van Coon’s flats. From there, it was just a matter of deciphering the code. I came up to tell you, and that’s when I saw their most recent, uh, artwork.” He indicated the windows with a wide sweep of his hand and a frown. “I worked out where their meeting place was. It was luck that you happened to be there as well. I arrived just in time. Would love to claim that I planned it that way, but this time, it was just lucky.” 

“So you… didn’t know I was there? You just knew they would hopefully be there?” 

“For the exchange of the treasure, yes. It stood to reason they would bring you to Shan if they thought you had the treasure. Though why they thought you’d have it, instead of me… That I’m still not sure about.”

“They thought I was you.” Finished with his window, John tossed his flannel in the bucket and carried it over to Sherlock’s side. He stood with his arms folded, watching as he scrubbed the window. Sherlock glanced over in surprise.

“They did? Why on earth would they think that?” Sherlock’s eyes took on that faraway look, the one he got when he was trying to work something out. John held up his hand. 

“It’s not that deep. They’ve been following us the whole time. It was a series of miscommunications, nothing more. Oh, that reminds me.” John pulled his wallet from his back pocket, tossing Sherlock’s card down on the table. “Your card back.” 

This, all of this, was so frustrating. Sherlock was acting like this was all a game, just a fascinating game of chess, with marble carved pawns instead of real people with real lives at stake. John and Sarah both could have  _ died _ tonight but all Sherlock seemed to care about was solving a puzzle. He shivered again. Though the shower had helped to warm him up, standing by the draughty window had made him cold again. He supposed he could go to bed but he knew he was still too riled up to sleep. For the sole purpose of having something to do with his hands, he walked over to the fireplace. There were stacks of papers around the hearth, and he slid them to the side, taking care not to disturb whatever organisational system Sherlock may or may not have had. As he hunted around for the matches, it occurred to him that Sherlock had been quiet for several minutes. He glanced over his shoulder to see that he was still wiping the window, though much more slowly, his gaze faraway and the corners of his mouth turned down into a frown. Right then. That’ll take him a while longer yet. 

Once he got the fire nice and roaring, he dragged over both of the chairs and turned them so they faced the fire. He settled into the more plush of the two, an ancient upholstered armchair that felt like a warm hug. He’d sat in the other one a few times, but the slippery leather put him off and the metal arms were much too uncomfortable. Plus, he’d noticed that Sherlock seemed to have a preference for that one, as he could often be found perched on it. 

John stretched out his socked feet to warm them, wiggling his toes a bit to ward off the chill of the room. Behind him, he heard Sherlock take the bucket to the kitchen and pour it out in the sink, squeezing out the flannels and puttering around some more. John let himself slip into a bit of a trance, watching the flames lick hypnotizingly at the wood, changing colours from red to orange to blue. His eyelids felt heavy, his body finally warm and relaxed. A touch to his shoulder startled him awake, an inelegant snort slipping out as he lolled his head to the right. It was Sherlock, looking apologetic and holding a mug of tea that looked dangerously close to sloshing onto his knuckles.

“Sorry. Tea?” 

John nodded, pulling himself up to a proper seated position. He gestured to the fireplace. 

“I was cold. Thought we could use a little warm up.” 

Sherlock lifted his own mug in agreement as he settled down into the black chair, one long leg slung over a metal armrest. John’s lip quirked at the sight. For several moments, the flat was filled once again with only the crackling of the logs as the fire lapped at them and the soft susurrus of their tea sipping. 

“Sherlock, I —”

“So, Sarah—”

John glanced sideways at his flatmate, the picture of calm nonchalance as he sipped his tea and dangled his leg. He’d been ready to apologise, to get off his chest what had been eating away at his conscience all evening— for several days or weeks even, if he was being honest with himself. He needed to tell Sherlock that he didn’t have to keep dragging John along to crime scenes as a charity. It was becoming dangerous for both of them, but especially Sherlock. The last thing he needed was a pathetic war vet hanging off his gun arm. But he balked; the idea of sitting alone in this flat while Sherlock ran off on adventures without him, now that he’d had a taste of that life, was more than he could bear to give permission to.  _ More of the sitting down type. _ That’s what the landlady had said about him. What if she was right? 

“Yeah. Sarah. Don’t think she’ll be calling me again. Might make working at that clinic a bit awkward. Will probably have to find another job.” 

“Oh, I don’t know… She didn’t seem wholly put out. Not every night she gets to play the damsel in distress, I’d wager. If nothing else, it will be her most memorable date, that’s for sure.”

John chuckled, but it was dry, forced. “Perhaps next time, I’ll at least manage to buy her dinner before the life endangering.” 

Sherlock hummed. 

The fire dwindled. John wrestled with his thoughts, but in the end, decided not to speak his mind. Not yet. He’d give it another few days, another case or two, see if he could be more of a helpmate than a burden. After an hour or so, Sherlock stood and collected their cups, took them to the kitchen and gave them a quick rinse. 

“Goodnight, John.” 

John gave a wave before kneeling down to extinguish the last of the dying embers. He heard Sherlock’s bedroom door click shut. With a last look around the now-clean sitting room, he locked the door and went up to bed.

* * *

“Coffee, John?” Sherlock poured two cups, sliding one over to him as he sat at the table. 

“Ta.” 

The printout of the cipher was on the table and John recognised Sherlock’s scrawl in black felt pen. He squinted at it and then up at Sherlock. It seemed important that they put a period on the end of this case where now there seemed to be just a hanging ellipses. 

“So. Nine million.”

“Yes.”

“Nine million for Jade pin dragon den black tramway.” 

“An instruction for all their London operatives.” 

“Mm.”

“A message. What they were trying to reclaim.”

“What? A Jade pin?” 

Sherlock hummed affirmatively, pointing at the hastily-translated paper. “Worth nine million pounds. Bring it to the tramway, their London hideout.”

“Hang on. A  _ hairpin _ worth nine million pounds? Why so much?” 

“Depends who owned it.” Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, looking smug.

“And… do you… do we know who owned it, then?” 

Sherlock set his mug down and smiled, one of his soft, genuine smiles. 

“Of course I do, John. Are you finished? We need to go to the bank.”


End file.
